Jim Baen's Universe

Introducing: Stories by new authors

Extreme Reservations

Written by R. J. Ortega

Illustrated by Dan Monroe

The innkeeper’s wife flipped the gold coin to her husband; it glinted prettily in the light of a single bare bulb. He caught it in the air.

“It’s real,” she said.

Ken O’Malley stared at the coin in his hand; with the other he absently removed a green eyeshade he habitually wore whenever doing the books. A bit of a traditionalist was Ken O’Malley. He wrinkled his forehead, rubbing a dry spot between his graying red eyebrows. “So what the hell is a doubloon doing in our reservation book?”

“Not a doubloon dear, it’s Dutch, not Spanish; a 17^th century 100-Guilder trading ducat.” Cathy folded her arms over her formidable bosom as she spoke; Ken swallowed hard at the sight. All these years, and the former Miss Cathy Feinberg could still make his heart beat faster with a gesture. “It’s worth a bit more than the simple gold content, too.” She quoted the value a Sacramento numismatist had appraised the coin for. Ken whistled, deep and low.

“Maybe that’s how Uncle Seamus balanced the books on this place; black market gold, or something. God knows he didn’t do it on the barflies and river rats we call clientele.”

He pulled the reservation book for June down off a shelf, flopping it open to the second Saturday. The notation, in his late uncle’s precise handwriting, read: “Private party, F.H. & 100+ guests, morning till closing, full buffet, open bar. (Order extra rum, brandy, ale.)”

A small Manila envelope was taped to the page. Ken returned the gold coin to it, and shut the book. “Well, we’ll know two weeks from tomorrow. Meanwhile, we’ve got to get ready for the Friday night rush.”

Cathy swung the door to the tiny office open; a wonderful smell wafted in. “Ah. For a Jamaican, Henri sure knows how to cook Italian.” She inhaled deeply. “Mmm. Garlic, shrimp, olive oil—”

Ken sniffed the air too, and scowled. “That’s not all.” He began to curse in the few words of Gaelic he actually knew.

“Calm down dear. It’s part of his religion.”

“Then he can smoke it in church, but not in my kitchen, damn it!”

****

Two weeks passed. Ken rose from the narrow bed he and his wife shared, and stumbled out the door of their cabin into the wheelhouse that served as their living room. He wrapped his bathrobe tight against the morning chill, and watched the sun rise over the Sacramento River delta.

It can’t last, but right now, it’s beautiful. He’d spent most of his life fighting traffic every morning, dreaming of the day he could retire to run a bar and live above his workplace. Having such a magnificent view as well was sweet icing. Too bad we can’t afford it.

The Paddlewheeler Restaurant and Bar, AKA The Delta Princess had begun her life more than a century earlier, as an authentic Mississippi riverboat. The details of how she had migrated to the west coast were lost to history, but it was known that during the roaring twenties she had spent ten years anchored due west of Los Angeles just outside the twelve-mile limit, serving perfectly legal cocktails to those who could afford it. After repeal she had been dry-docked until 1953, when a young Seamus O’Malley, freshly returned from the fields of war, had claimed her, refurbished her, and sailed her north along the Pacific coast and eastward into the Sacramento River. There he had converted her into a public house and restaurant. She had been a local landmark ever since.

He’d made a pretty good living at it too, or so Ken had thought until he’d inherited the place. At least Seamus O’Malley had always had plenty of money to throw around at the annual family reunions. But it was six months since Uncle Seamus had passed, and more and more the Paddlewheeler seemed to be nothing more than a gaping hole in the water into which money was poured. Ken had questioned the staff about it, but they were either oblivious or close-mouthed. He’d searched through the bookkeeping with a fine tooth comb and the obsessive detail twenty-five years in civil service can drum into a man, and had finally come to the conclusion that Uncle Seamus had somehow run the place at a loss, funneling outside cash into the enterprise in massive amounts once or twice a year, in some manner invisible to the IRS.

Ken owned the riverboat free and clear, but at the end of the month he had to provide a full year’s lease money in advance to the owner of the pier she was now more or less permanently married to; that would eat up what little was left of the cash portion of his uncle’s legacy. If he did it, he doubted he could keep her open more than a few months more. The logical thing to do was to cut his losses, damn it.

He sighed, lit his first Camel of the day, and tried to enjoy the view through the dying embers of a bright dream. And that was when he saw the sails, tall and white, wind-driven against a blue-black dawn sky, and despite himself he felt a childlike enthusiasm rippling into his middle-aged heart.

He pulled open the door to the Captain’s Cabin. “Honey, get up, you’ve got to see this—”

A moan answered. “It’s Saturday. I was up until zero-weird-hundred pouring Eddie into the sleep-it-off room again; let me sleep in a little.”

“Cathy, it’s a windjammer! I swear, like something right out of Horatio Hornblower, sailing up the river.”

“I don’t care if it’s Jack Sparrow and the Pirates of the Caribbean; let me sleep.”

He sighed, and turned back to drink in the sight. “Oh Jesus, she’s magnificent. I don’t know how she’s making the draft in this shallow water. She sailing right toward us . . .”

His voice trailed off. The ship was sailing right toward them. Directly toward them, tacking to starboard as if—

“Holy Mary, Mother of God! Cathy, get up! She’s gonna ram us!”

She almost did. As Cathy bolted from bed, the sailing ship shifted her point to port slightly, striking her sails. She slid alongside the Delta Princess as gently as a mother setting her babe to rest. Grappling hooks flew out, securing her, anchor chains rattled, and a long ramp was dropped directly onto the railed promenade which horseshoed the wheelhouse.

Ken and Cathy watched numbly as a huge man with skin as pale as an egg stepped off the windjammer onto the ramp. He was fiercely bearded; from under a tricorn hat jet-black hair fell in greased ringlets from scalp and chin alike. His clothing, all as black as his hair, was of fine silks and brocades of the richest quality, cut in the style of an earlier century; bloused pants were tucked into the tops of improbably high leather boots.

He crossed the long ramp swinging a bulky oilcloth sack in a hand the size of a small ham. Stepping casually over the brass railing he entered the wheelhouse, and stared past Ken and Cathy, eyes as dark as a stormy night sliding over them dismissively as the pair strained for self-control in their bedclothes and fuzzy slippers.

The dark mariner swept the room with his gaze, scowled massively, and raised a hand to his mouth. “Seamus,” he bellowed in a ringing baritone, “It’s me, Vandervecken. Vhere is you, kiddo? Vhe gots a schedule to keep.” He moved past them like a well-dressed windstorm, continuing to call for Seamus as he stomped downstairs.

At length Ken found his voice. “Who the hell is he supposed to be?”

“Not who, what! ” Cathy whispered. She pointed through the plate glass that ringed the forward half of the wheelhouse. On the windjammer’s bow, in faded gilt letters, was the legend Fliegende Hollander.

“So what does that mean?”

“Oh come on! Don’t you know your Wagner?”

He shrugged. “You’re the one who went to Stanford.”

She sighed. “It translates to ‘Flying Dutchman.’”

His eyes goggled. “Oh no.” He fought off a case of the giggles. “You gotta be kidding me.”

She opened her mouth to answer, but the voice that replied came from below decks. “Seamus, vhere is you? Vhe is burnink daylights.” Boot heels stomped up hardwood stairs and the black-garbed seaman squeezed his bulk back through the hatch. “Vhere is Seamus O’Malley? Vhe has a contract for today. I tells you, you can’ts trust an Irishman to be punctual.”

The ethnic insult helped Ken find his voice again. “My uncle Seamus died in an auto accident on New Year’s Day; I’ll thank you not to insult his memory. I’m Ken O’Malley, the new proprietor. And who might you be?”

“Captain Vandervecken,” the big man replied distractedly. “Seamus is dead?” A cloud seemed to pass over his milk-white face; he rolled his dark eyes heavenward. “Dot lucky bastard!” He shook his impossibly broad shoulders. “But you is schtill in business, ja?”

“Well, yes . . .”

“Goot.” A broad smile spread across the shaggy face. “Vhe had der defil’s own time finding a bar vhat fit all the conditions.”

“Conditions?”

“Ja. You sees, dose uf us what’s gots no choice but to liff forevers, vhe gets togetter vonce each year, secont Sattiday in Chune, for a little kaffeklatch. Unfortunate, most of us is sailink under a curse of zum kindt. Me and mine crew, for examples, is only allowed to go ashore every zeventh year.” He stamped his foot on the deck. “Dis beink technical a boat on der vater, no problem. Goot for old Ahasuerus too. Again, beink technical a vessel wot coulds get unter vay, he is free to spendt der night mitout his curse givink him itchy feet.”

“Ahasuerus?” Ken whispered in Cathy’s ear.

“The Wandering Jew, I think.”

“Undt of course Jack-uff-der-lantern vhont zet foot in a pub mitout it zerves a zuperior black-undt-tan.” He raised one bushy eyebrow. “You does, don’t you?”

“Best in the county,” Ken affirmed proudly. Then he raised an eyebrow. “That’s a weird curse.”

“Vhut curse? He’s chust Irish.” Vandervecken shrugged his ponderous shoulders. “But der mozt important part is, beink on runnink vater helps us keep the party crashers to a minimal. Speakink of vich—”

He opened the oilcloth sack and removed an oversized hourglass cased in brass, which he set down on a navigator’s table bolted to the deck next to the wood-pegged ship’s wheel. “So, does vhe haff a deal? I gafe your late onkle ten per centages down to reserfe dis place last year.” He removed a silken clasp-purse from his jacket and tossed it to Ken. “Here’s der rest.”

Ken opened the purse with trembling fingers. Sure enough, nine twins to the antique trading Ducat were nestled inside. He mentally multiplied the coin’s appraised value by a factor of ten, subtracted the upcoming lease payment, and realized that the remaining difference would be enough to keep the Paddlewheeler afloat for months.

“Vhe haff a deal,” he replied dreamily.

“Goot!” Vandervecken turned the sandglass over, placed one hand atop it, and solemnly intoned “Donder und Blitzen!” Outside the bright June daylight suddenly dimmed as storm clouds gathered with impossible speed, driven by winds that rocked the riverboat despite her secure moorings.

“What the hell?” Ken blurted.

Vandervecken smiled. “A little bit insurance, again to cut down on party-crashers. Alzo, it signals mine guests dot it is time to . . . vot is dot eggsprezzion? Oh ja, party down, dot it is time to party down.” He stared at them as if noticing their state of semi-undress for the first time. “Perhaps you shouldt maybe get zum clothses on, undt man der bar; mine crew is tursty after a year at zea.”

He headed back down the stairs, pausing in the hatchway to point back at the sandglass. “Votever you do, don’t touch dot until der zands run out tomorrow mornink. If you do, der contract ist kaput.” He drew his finger across his neck with a snick sound to emphasize the warning.

By the time the hurriedly dressed pair reached the main dining deck a score of sailors dressed as if for a road-show revival of “The Pirates of Penzance” were already clustered at the bar, impatiently awaiting service. The jukebox was blaring “Brandy,” by Looking Glass.

Ken touched his wife on the shoulder. “Get on the horn to Richard, C.B., and Big John. Tell ’em to get here sooner than possible and to be ready for mucho bartending overtime. And if John can get a couple of his blacksmithing buddies over as extra bouncers it’d be appreciated.”

She nodded, and then bit her lip nervously. “Ken, are we sure about this? I mean—this can’t really be happening, can it?”

Ken kissed her—earning hoots and applause from the sailors—and whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it all figured out. This is all just some kind of publicity stunt for a new reality TV show.” He looked around the room. “Probably on the Sci-Fi Channel.”

She nodded dubiously. “And the storm?”

“Umm, CGI?” He smiled weakly, patted her on the backside, and opened the bar.

He’d barely poured the first round—Captain Morgan’s, straight up all around—when there was a knock at the main entrance. Perhaps knock was too weak a word; the entire door rattled as if hit by a battering ram. A basso profundo voice from outside bellowed “OPEN UP!” and the door rattled again.

“Dot vould be Frank,” Vandervecken said, raising a rum-filled glass to his lips. “Let him in.”

Against his better judgment, Ken unlatched the door, which flung open to reveal a person so large as to render Vandervecken Lilliputian by comparison. Standing nearly eight feet tall and at least a yard wide across the shoulders, the newcomer’s face seemed to have been assembled in the dark by someone with an incomplete set of instructions. Lank gray-black hair hung down over a ridiculously broad forehead; watery yellow eyes stared out from under unevenly placed eyebrows set in sallow yellowish skin. The pug nose was set far too high, almost between the eyes, one of which was clearly larger than the other. He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth of varying lengths set in cracked, decaying gums.

“I’m sorry,” he said in the refined tones of an Oxford Don, “isn’t this the annual meeting of The Society of The Indefinitely Prolonged?” He patted at his jacket pocket—Armani, Ken noted, over an angora sweater—and added, “I seem to have misplaced my invitation.”

“Frank!” Vandervecken cried, echoed by half the sailors at the bar. “How you doink? Vhere’s the missus?”

“At home, watching the little ones,” Frank replied jovially. “We’ve got another one under construction, you know . . .”

Ken returned to bartending duties, pouring himself a small one, which he sipped gingerly. Okay, so Jack Pierce’s finest creation is sitting in my bar nursing a microbrew. I can deal with it.

The jukebox began to play “In The Navy,” followed by “Beyond the Sea.” Thank God it wasn’t karaoke night. 

****

Frank wasn’t the only early arrival. Ahasuerus popped up about ten o’clock, dressed out of the Travelsmith catalog and carrying a battered suitcase covered in layers of ancient hotel stickers. He immediately began downing glass after glass of Mogen David, and was quite thoroughly plotzed by the noontime arrival of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, and her consort. She wore a golden chain